Chapter Four

A New Charge

As she made her way through the quiet streets of Los Osos, Tara's mind was reeling from one flash of memory to another. It seemed impossible that so much had happened in just one day. First the death of Peter Whitney, then the exquisite dream of the goddess, and the surprising revelations from her brother, each had wrought such a change in her consciousness that the day felt years old. But now, in the tranquillity of the evanescent evening, it was the dream she chose to think of, and she once again tried to recapture the moments of sweetness from that dream. She longed to toss herself into the honeyed depths of the memories, and she focused especially on the moment of contact with the goddess, the feel of her devoted arms around Tara, the faint smell of sandalwood and rose in her hair, the feeling of coming home, at long last.

That pleasant fiction, which had started so welcome as she started her drive, quickly turned to poison in her mind. For with every moment she remembered the joy, she then remembered the ache of loneliness, the long desperate years she had been alone. Sue had been such a very long time ago, just a blip, really, on the course of Tara's life. Every night in the years since then she had spent alone. Tara felt like she was screaming, always screaming, just needing someone to take notice of her, but the crowds of people in her life kept milling around her, ignoring her agonised cries.

Swiftly, a ghost of her mother's voice came back to her. "It would have been so different."

Tara shook her head and concentrated on the dream again. She had been in Sunnydale. In the past week she had more pressing reasons to be glad she had not made Sunnydale her home, as the whole world rocked to the news of its sudden demise. The entire city had been lost in a terrific implosion, a single catastrophic event that no scientist could quite explain. Neither could they explain why the city was mysteriously empty, except within the remains of the brand new high school, where the bodies of dozens of young girls had been discovered. News stations had had a field day, ripe in speculations of sword wounds and bites. Why would she dream of that terrible place?

Hush, Tara.

So Tara reflected on the face of the woman, and her heart yearned in the remembrance, the feel of the woman's chin in her hand, the white hair she longed to entangle in her fingers, and the full lips that practically begged to be kissed.

And with her eyes wide open Tara could see the glowing green eyes of the goddess, the eyes that spoke of a longing that would survive forever, of a desire that would surpass any distance, of a love that would be celebrated eternally. In those sea green eyes Tara would finally find a safe harbour, a place to rest, sheltered from her sea of torments. Maybe in those eyes she could finally see a reflection of herself that wasn't skewed by generations of hate and abuse. Maybe the person behind those eyes could finally spur her into becoming the woman she'd always dreamed of becoming, the type of woman with dirt under her fingernails, wind in her hair, and patience in her soul, not an enigmatic mystery woman, but present and real.

And yes, Tara knew it was all for nothing, that this was the most exquisite torture imaginable, but her love-stricken mind didn't care. She had to feel love, any kind of love, even if it wasn't real.

Because even that little something was better than nothing at all.

I'm in love, and I don't even know her name.

Thus she entertained (tormented!) herself on the short drive to the hospice, through the sleepy streets, around playgrounds and parks, and finally into the parking lot. The sun was beginning to set over the bank of trees surrounding the hospice, and she could see a slim sliver of Pacific Ocean on the horizon, smouldering in the afterglow of the day's affair with the sun.

Once inside the cool, dim corridors, Tara made her way to the West Wing nurse's station, where she figured she would find Ethan. Indeed he was there, looking tired and overworked. His sandy brown hair was tucked recklessly behind his ears and his white shirt looked rumpled. She looked at her watch, which confirmed the fact that he had been there for more than twelve hours. He looked up to see her approach and she gave him a lopsided smile.

"Good, you're here," he said, putting down the papers he was staring at and rubbing his eyes.

"Goodness, Ethan, you're turning into me," Tara gently teased. She enjoyed teasing Ethan; he was easy to get along with. Probably because he was a perpetual bachelor, who enjoyed the flirting and the dating but not the commitment. When she had first arrived he had put the moves on her, which only served to make her laugh. Sue

(sad sad Sue)

was long gone by then, but Tara wasted no time in letting him know, gently of course, that he was barking up the wrong tree. Ever since then he had become a sort of protector for her, and after today's disastrous meeting with her brother she now wistfully wished that Donny could be more like Ethan and less like their father. Ethan was someone she could turn to, but the open sea of their friendship had yet to encounter a storm. Would he still stand by her if he knew the truth? She didn't know, and she wasn't about to risk it. He knew precious little about her abilities, but he had discovered some time ago that she gave the best shoulder rubs in the state, and it was that plea that came to her now.

"What a long day," Ethan said. "Could you…?" he asked her with a look of hope on his face.

Tara's dimples magically appeared as she smiled hugely and she pointed to one of the chairs behind the nurse's station. Ethan gratefully sat down, settling as comfortably as he could in the chair. John, one of the wing's night nurses, looked over at them for a moment, then returned to distributing pills in the little containers for their patients. Tara closed her eyes for only a moment, still sizzling with the energy of the rabbit, focusing herself and her powers, then opened them again. She placed her lithe and slender fingers on top of Ethan's shoulders and began to massage. She had taken massage therapy courses, it certainly helped in the hospice for the overworked massage therapy specialists, and she had done so deliberately. Massaging a patient dealt with bare skin, and bare skin was Tara's speciality. So now and then she would stop rubbing for a moment to place her hot fingers on Ethan's neck and suck out the pain of his head and shoulders before returning to the general massage over his clothes. Soon she could feel the telltale numbness in her fingers that testified of the successful transfer, and the heaviness of Ethan's pain settled somewhere behind her heart. Tara rubbed as long as she could stand, siphoning off the worst of his pain, knowing that if he knew the truth, he would never have asked.

The truth was dangerous. If any of her co-workers actually knew what she could do, that she could actually take, really truly physically take the pain of her patients upon herself, so that she would feel it instead, they would either be concerned for her safety or burn her as a witch. Too great a part of her needed their pain, she needed being able to do something that no one else could do. She needed the darkness, the purple stain, and under the care of her talented fingers she knew that bones would mend and cuts would heal. So what if she felt what they did, and now it was Ethan's headache that settled deep in her mind, and Ethan's shoulder and neck muscles that burned her with his day's labour?

(I never listen to Donny, do I?)

Donny understood, curse him. She should have told him that the poor rabbit wasn't enough. If she weren't careful this month, he would need to bring a dog next time. And the larger and more intelligent the animal, the more she hated herself.

Wow, Ethan had had a hard day.

"Thank you," Ethan breathed, getting up easily out of the chair, his face suddenly glowing with energy. Inwardly she rejoiced. She did that.

"That feels so much better. You've got magic fingers, Tara."

"What?" she gasped. Her whole face flushed and she hated it. "No, no magic, just m-massage. That's all."

Ethan cocked a single, adorable eyebrow at her overreaction, but then gently grabbed her elbow to guide her down the hallway the short way to his office. As supervisor of the West Wing (the hospice was quite large, with a whole wing for imaging and other tests, another wing for rehabilitation, and two patient wings), he was entitled to an actual office and it was there he led her, seating her on a plain wooden chair before sitting behind his desk overflowing with paperwork.

"What's going on?" Tara asked.

"Oh, I want a smoke," Ethan moaned, ruffling his hair and Tara suppressed a smirk. "Well, down to business," he said, opening a slim folder on his desk. He rifled through a few pages, then sighed.

"Are you ready for a new patient, Tara? Because we've got a pretty special circumstance here."

And all Tara could feel was relief. She wouldn't have to lie to her father about not wanting to come home. Now she could have a legitimate reason to stay. But then she lifted an eyebrow. This was very unusual; the hospice was usually quite rigid on its rule of down time – there were other nurses who were available. Even if Ethan wanted to give her the responsibility of a new patient, a split-shift nurse would usually take over for the first week, giving her the mandatory week off. Why would Ethan risk that ruling?

She didn't need to ask the question; at her cocked eyebrow, Ethan continued, "Actually, you've been specially requested."

Tara's head, which had been hanging somewhat

(Oh, Ethan, you had a terrible headache, didn't you…)

shot upwards. "What?" she asked.

"Let me tell you what we know of this patient," Ethan said, pulling a cigarette out of a battered case he kept in his desk drawer. He took it in his fingers and rolled it in his hands. Tara knew he must be upset; he would never light it, but he usually didn't need to hold one anymore.

"The patient's name is Willow Rosenberg." He looked at her as if he expected the name to mean something to her. It didn't. Ethan continued, "She's 23 years old and the sole survivor of the Sunnydale incident that occurred a week ago."

No, not possible.

Tara's eyes widened, and a faint prickling of remembered terror/bliss ran through her. Was this for real? She knew that sometimes her dreams were prophetic, and now her heart began beating in earnest remembrance of the woman

(her lips)

and the singular stirring within her gut. Tara felt like she was falling into an abyss, with white noise whirring in her ears, so she could barely hear Ethan continue.

Not possible, not for her.

"I vaguely remember the news reports," Ethan said. "In her file it says that this girl was found in a smashed-up school bus just inside the crater. From all accounts it looks like people were trying to flee the implosion, but they just couldn't make it out in time. There were five or six people in the bus, mostly young girls, teenagers, but they were all dead by the time rescuers came. Only Ms. Rosenberg survived."

"What sort of condition is she in?" Tara asked, her voice weak.

Ethan heavily ran through the list, "She was nearly disembowelled with a deep cut across her abdomen. She also has various puncture wounds, including a through and through with a sword, it is believed."

"A sword," Tara echoed in near-disbelief.

Ethan ignored her to continue, "She has a vicious bite on her neck that no one can identify. Both legs were trapped in the bus wreckage and mangled severely, though not broken. One lung is collapsed, as something heavy struck her in the chest, leaving terrible lacerations. But the most severe is head trauma. She has a broken skull. She is in a coma, but has stabilised this past week and is ready for transfer from the overworked Los Angeles hospital."

"And she's coming here? How can she afford it?" Tara asked, incredulous. She knew that the Los Osos Hospice was one of the best in the country, and therefore the most expensive. Mr. Whitney's wealth had bought him a place here, to die in a level of peace and comfort most people simply could not afford.

Ethan sat back, dropping the file and drank from a cup of coffee that looked too cool to be pleasant. "Well, that's something else that's interesting. She hasn't had any relatives come to see her."

"Wait. No relatives? None?" Tara's heart, already melted into a soft pile of luscious goo, descended into further depths of compassion. Was there no one who cared about this girl? About her survival?

Could she be so much like me?

Ethan frowned and shook his head before continuing. "The only way they identified her was through dental records. On those records her emergency contacts are listed as her parents: Ira and Sheila Rosenberg, but their address is also in Sunnydale. It is possible that they also died in the accident."

Tortured to death and orphaned. Not a good day for Ms. Rosenberg.

Ethan couldn't understand the emotions constantly flickering through Tara's face. Part bewildered, part concerned, all he could do was continue, "But, apparently, an anonymous donor has come forward with a trust fund for her. Not knowing how long Ms. Rosenberg would need care I did the unthinkable and asked how much was in said fund." Ethan paused, not above a sense of dramatics.

"And?" Tara asked, leaning forward in her chair, her heart beating uncomfortably hard.

"Strange fellow. A Brit, I think," Ethan replied, grimacing at the taste of coffee in his mouth. He noticed Tara staring sharply at him and continued, "Several million dollars. Enough to keep her in care here for a very long time."

"So who requested me?" Tara asked, starting to feel a little dizzy.

"Same British fellow. Wouldn't leave his name. But he was adamant about you. Said they wouldn't place her here if you couldn't be her care-giver."

Ah, Tara thought. Finally, he gets to the point.

Ethan also seemed to realise this was the important moment, and he clasped his hands benevolently and looked softly at her, suddenly noticing how tired and drawn she looked. Had she looked like that when she first arrived? No, she had seemed rested, vivacious… what had happened? He shook his head. "We need the business, Tara," he said softly. "I know it's too soon after Mr. Whitney, but can you take her?"

Tara gave Ethan a low smile, then pulled the file towards her. She flipped to the first page, then gasped as all the colour ran from her face. Enough was enough. It simply wasn't possible. No. Dreams do not come true, not in real life. Not for her. If they did, wouldn't her mother still be alive?

At least now I know her name.

"What?" Ethan asked, dropping his cigarette in surprise.

"This is her?" Tara asked, pointing to the picture paper-clipped to the front page in the files. Ethan was flummoxed at Tara's reaction and looked at the picture again. Tara had seen plenty of patients before, some in worse shape than this. So why was she suddenly ashen-faced and trembling? Granted, the girl in the picture was striking, but mostly in a my-god-she's-beat-up kind of way. Well, that and the white white hair.

"Yes, that's her," he equivocated. "Is there something wrong, Tara?"

(the lamb, I am the lamb)

Tara could only stare at the picture, remembered ecstasy crackling through her veins, making her break out in goosebumps. It was undeniably the woman from her dream, the woman who had captured her soul and led it away a prisoner, a woman she had never met.

And there was fear, and the soiled taste of death and madness in her mouth.

(you took too much, Tara)

"I am the lamb," Tara whispered.

"What?" Ethan asked again, and the small note of panic in his voice finally alerted Tara. She looked up at him, then visibly shook herself.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, blinking. "Yes, yes, of course I'll take her. When does she arrive?"

"Late tomorrow morning," Ethan answered, still confused. "She's coming by ambulance from Los Angeles." Tara didn't answer, for she had turned all her considerable attention once more to the photograph.

"Tara?" Ethan asked, "do you know this girl?"

And Tara looked up and blinked yet again. Ethan sat back in surprise. Over the past year he had come to know Tara, probably more than she realised, and knew that she only blinked and ducked her head when she was seriously confused or nervous. And never like this.

"No," Tara breathed. "I've never seen her before."

(Liar!)

Tara knew he couldn't understand. He may be a tremendous doctor, brilliant administrator and an outrageous flirt, but he had no comprehension of the filters between the realities of this universe. How could he believe that she was a prophetess, among other things? A seer, a fortune-teller, a dreamer, and a witch? Such things died out with the Knights of the Round Table. Certainly every couple hundred years a powerful wizard/prophet came to the notice of the world at large, the most notable contemporary being Rasputin, but Tara regarded herself as only a drifting mite in the vast sea of modern wizardry. Easily missed among the mighty Krakens who trolled the depths of the magics, seeking answers to impossible riddles and solutions to impossible problems. What influence does a mite have in such a fathomless sea?

But there was this girl now, and Tara had dreamt of her, and now Tara shuddered to think of the impending cataclysm, for is love anything but disaster? Would she be swallowed whole, used up and vomited forth as her mother so dreadfully predicted? Or would she find in this new charge the reason for her entire jaded existence? Would this woman's lips, hands, heart and soul be worth the dreaded purple stain?

(for the love of this woman, you will surely die)

From this moment on, nothing would be the same.